


Brand New Day

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Time, Frottage, Sequel, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last night, he almost lost his life to the Dark One.  Dawn's grey light may not have reached the window of his lodgings as yet, but it's already a brand new day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brand New Day

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If I Lend it to You (will you keep it safe for me?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788721) by [msgenevieve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve). 



> The sequel to "If I Give it to You (will you keep it safe for me?)", set early the next morning. No spoilers, other than for 411.

~*~

 

He sleeps like the dead.

Thankfully, that is all he has in common with the dearly departed on this night.

It's not quite dawn when he opens his eyes, feeling more rested than he has in weeks. When he feels the brush of a soft, bare foot against his, he remembers with a jolt that he is not alone in his bed.

_Emma._

She's sprawled beside him, sleeping on her stomach, one arm under her pillow, the other flung behind her, her hand resting on his hip above the blankets. It's as though she's afraid to loosen her grip on him, even in sleep, and the notion makes his chest tighten.

And speaking of which -

He presses the heel of his palm against his sternum, feeling the steady thump of his heart, and the miracle of his survival dawns on him anew. A few short hours ago, he’d been facing his death and no two ways about it. He’d climbed those stairs in the clock tower prepared to meet his maker, but true horror had only gripped him when Emma had been about to witness him breaking his promise to her in the most brutal of ways.

 _You don’t have to worry about me, love._

A most expected reprieve had come in the form of the Crocodile's woman, and the irony of another of the Dark One’s wives saving his heart from being crumpled into dust is not lost on Killian. This time, a woman’s bravery had not ended in her own death, and for that he is eternally grateful. 

According to Emma, Belle has since banished her husband across the town line. In a perfect world, the Dark One would never be able to return, never again have the power to threaten him or the people he loves. Alas, it is not a perfect world. Killian Jones knows that more than anyone, perhaps.

Tonight, though, he's tempted to believe that perfection is possible. Emma Swan is sleeping peacefully in his bed as though it's her rightful place, and the memory of their heated kisses is still warming his lips.

(He can still feel the warmth of her touch around his heart)

He smiles into the darkness, remembering her stern warning that she was only in his bed for sleep, and wonders exactly who she had been trying to convince. For all their emotional misunderstandings since their first meeting, their bodies have always been simpatico, and they both know she had wanted him as much as he'd wanted her. Their evening could have ended quite differently (even now, he can't believe he's had Emma Swan in his bed for the past several hours and done nothing but slumber beside her), but he can't deny he's glad she laid down the law before laying her head on his pillow. He's wanted her far longer than he cares to admit, but he'd been in no fit state to fully appreciate such a momentous occasion.

(All the same, it had no doubt been a wise idea for both of them to remain clothed)

Now that he's awoken, his thoughts quickly conspire to keep him from his slumber, and he finds himself staring at the ceiling of his lodgings, unhappily replaying each and every moment of his enforced indenture to the Crocodile's nefarious wishes. He has no idea what has become of the enchanted hat he'd been forced to use on so many innocent souls, he realises sourly, and he can only pray that their absorption into that accursed item can be reversed.

“You know, I can hear you thinking from here.”

Emma's voice is gently roughened by sleep, but he can tell she's smiling as she speaks.

Rolling onto his side, he fits his body against hers. In the darkness, he finds her hand above the covers, threading his fingers through hers. “Sorry, love.” The soft strands of her hair brush his face, making his nose twitch pleasantly. “A lot to process.”

Her hand tightens on his. “Wanna talk about it?”

He closes his eyes. He dearly wants to unburden his soul to this woman, but it's not a weight he wishes to place on her shoulders, especially not in the middle of the night. “You need your sleep, Swan.”

She shifts beside him, rolling onto her back, her hand still clasped in his. In the darkness, he hears her breathe out a long, soft sigh. “Remember that whole _quiet moment_ thing?”

He feels a smile tug at his own lips. “That I do.”

“You're not gonna get any quieter than this, trust me.”

The silence stretches between them for a long moment, a tangible thing in the darkness, then he draws a deep gulp of cool air into his lungs. “Foremost, love, I owe you an apology.” He feels as though the words are being dredged up from the darkest corners of himself, struggling to break through into the light. It's a sensation that has become painfully familiar to him over the last few days. “Several apologies, in fact.”

“So you said last night.” Emma shifts beside him again, and he feels the whisper of her light magic rush through the air. The sudden glow of the twin lamps above the bed has him blinking, and he shakes his head in admiration. Such easy confidence in her abilities is something he's long wanted for her, and he's more proud of her than he can say. 

“Shedding a little light on the subject, Swan?”

“Maybe.” She rolls onto her side, one hand propping up her head as her gaze meets his. Her golden hair is tousled, her features pale and faintly puffy from sleep, and she's still the most beautiful sight he's seen in over two centuries. “It's about time, don't you think?”

He gives her a wry smile, lifting his hand to her face, smoothing his knuckles against the downy curve of her cheek. “Aye.”

Turning her head, she brushes her lips against his fingers, her mouth warm against his skin. “Why don't we start with you getting your hand back from Gold?”

He hesitates, but only for a heartbeat, because there will be no more secrets, no more lies, and now that his words are truly his own once more, he's free to tell her everything. If she looks at him differently after she's learned his sordid tale, then so be it. He will mourn the loss of her regard until his dying day, but he will have honoured her by telling her the truth.

For the next hour, she listens as he talks, interjecting every now and then to clarify a particular point ( _wait, are you telling me that your hand has been in a freaking jar in his shop all this time?_ ), and as he talks, he can feel the tight knot in the pit of his stomach loosen with each new disclosure. Her face is a picture of distress as he tells her the circumstances of the Dark One's taking of his heart, and he takes her hand in his once again. “Not your fault, love.”

“You wouldn't have been at that house if I hadn't been so stupid to think Gold actually had my best interests at heart.”

“And perhaps you wouldn't have been so willing to accept he'd turned over a new leaf if I hadn't told you exactly that myself.”

Her mouth firms into a tight line as she regards him steadily, as though weighing up the truth of his words, then she shakes her head, her smile rueful. “I guess we just both believed what we wanted to believe.” She moves closer, one long leg curling around his, and he finds himself holding his breath. His blood is humming beneath his skin at her nearness, despite the layers of clothing between them, and the confessional atmosphere only seems to have inflamed matters. “I owe you an apology, too.”

Slipping his left arm beneath her shoulders, he pulls her closer, his heartbeat quickening as she rests her head and hand on his chest. “I respectfully disagree, love.”

She shakes her head, her chin rubbing against his shirt. “You were acting so strangely, I knew that something was wrong, but there was so much going on-” She trails off, her fingers toying with the buttons of his crumpled black shirt. “I should have _made_ you tell me what was going on.”

The guilt in her voice is almost a match for his own, and it's more than he can bear. “Ah, but you couldn't have drawn it out of me, darling, no matter how much you tried.” She lifts her head to look at him, her sea-green eyes glittering in the dimly light room, and he smiles at her. “The Crocodile had my heart, Swan, and thus control of my words and deeds.” Her whole face tightens, as though she's fighting back tears, and he feels his own eyes burn at the sight of the pain in her eyes. “I tried many times to tell you, but alas, my tongue was no longer mine to command. The Crocodile allowed no word or deed that didn't further his plans, I'm afraid.”

He knows the anger he sees flashing in her eyes is not for him. “At Granny's right before everything went crazy, you tried to tell me, didn't you?”

He almost flinches at the memory. How best to explain to her how he'd felt as though he was walking in a dream, a waking nightmare, his thoughts struggling to break through the dark fog of the Crocodile's grip? He thinks of the brief flash of triumph he'd felt when he'd managed to reach for her, his hand closing around her arm so tightly he's afraid now he may have left bruises. “Aye.”

“The more I think about it, the more obvious it is that it wasn't you talking to me.” Her voice is tight, clipping out each word with a snap and he realises her anger is now directed inward. “And it sure as hell wasn't you kissing me.”

He remembers every word of their conversation in the diner, but as though it occurred years ago, rather than only yesterday. “Do I take it that the Crocodile's mimicry of my dashing self wasn't all he'd hoped it would be?” To be brutally honest, he suspects the Dark One hadn't wasted a single moment's sleep over whether anyone would question his pawn's strange behaviour.

He's still a pirate, after all.

Emma's hand is suddenly on his face, her palm against his cheek as her eyes search his. “He made you sound like a pompous jerk.”

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug against the pillow. “If the shoe fits, Swan.”

She gives him a look that he can only describe as lovingly exasperated. “No, a different kind of pompous.” Her brow furrows, and he can see that she's thinking furiously. “You announced that you'd saved the day, and it was almost like you were taunting me.” Before he can speak, she goes on, her thumb teasing the corner of his lips. “And don't get me started on that kiss.”

His mouth seems to have gone dry. “Not quite my usual level of expertise, then?”

Her smile is soft and tender and warms him through as surely as a blazing bonfire. “Like kissing a codfish.” There is a mischievous glint in her eyes now, as though she's habouring a secret joke, and he gives her a quizzical glance. “Just a silly thing from a movie,” she mumbles, looking faintly sheepish. “I'll tell you later.”

She lays her head back on his chest, her fingers still lazily tracing the buttons on his shirt. The feel of her pressed against him is a heady sensation, and the scent of her, all sugar and spice, teases his nose, calling to the hunger in his very bones, the hunger that is always simmering just below the surface, waiting to bloom into mad, heated life. It makes it difficult to concentrate on what he wishes to tell her, but he's determined to leave no spectre of Gold's lies between them. “Do you know what became of the enchanted hat the Crocodile had me wield, Swan?”

He feels the sudden tension in her, making him briefly rue his words, but her answer reassures him. “Belle has it, as well as the dagger.”

“Do we know-” He closes his eyes, but he can still see their shocked faces, the terror in their eyes as he'd advanced upon them, the means of their demise cradled in his hands. “Do we know if the enchantment can be reversed?”

“Regina's working on it,” she tells him as she lifts her head to look at him once more, then adds a quietly muttered 'amongst other things', almost to herself. “Hopefully we'll know by tomorrow if the fairies can be, well, extracted.”

She utters the last word as she can't quite believe what she's saying, and it makes him smile. Despite everything they've seen, it appears that the daughter of Prince Charming and Snow White is still having trouble coming to terms with the reality of her world. Her gaze drops to his smile, and her own lips curve in a slow grin that has his pulse stuttering. “Feeling better?”

There's still quite the distance between his current state and the amends he knows he needs to make, but for now, this is more than enough. “Much improved for having bared my soul, love.”

She nods almost distractedly, her gaze roaming over his face as though trying to reassure herself that he's himself once again. Another silence falls upon them, but this time he's painfully aware of the press of her body against his side, the soft swell of her breasts against his ribs, her thigh resting on his. There has been nothing salacious about her manner, but his body pays no heed to such minor details, and he's grateful for the presence of their clothing like never before. “It sounds like tomorrow will be another busy day. Perhaps we should try to get some sleep.”

He'd told her once that he was always a gentleman, and he's never felt more like reneging on that statement in his life.

Emma's gaze doesn't budge from his, but he's very much conscious of the hand on his chest and the fingernails that are lightly scratching the skin bared by his unbuttoned collar. “How about a goodnight kiss?”

His heart begins to pound, and he's not sure he's capable of summoning any form of willpower. _“Swan-”_

She flashes him a teasing smile that, strangely enough, manages to diffuse the thick tension in the air. “Relax, Cassanova,” she murmurs (rather bewilderingly, he has to admit), her hand stilling on his chest. “Like I said, you'll need to be fully charged for what I have in mind.”

He feels his eyebrows almost shoot up to his hairline. “And just how long have you had this particular _something_ in mind, love?”

An intriguing blush creeps across her pale face, and he's suddenly filled with the vision of her marvellous breasts tinged that same pink, the flush of pleasure as she writhes beneath him.

 _Bloody hell_.

She doesn't help matters by bringing her face close to his, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

Deciding it's time to redress the balance in this little flirtation, he slides his hand into her hair, gently tugging back her head so he can stare into her eyes, his mouth merely a whisper from hers. “I think we've _firmly_ established that I would, Swan.”

Her eyes darken, her chin lifting as if accepting his challenge, then her mouth finds his.

It's a languid kiss, but no less potent for its slow beginnings. Her tongue sweeps between his lips to taste and tease, and he catches her sigh of pleasure, breathing it back into her mouth as the boundaries between their bodies begin to blur. He rolls slowly onto his side until she's pressed against him from shoulder to thigh, and the kiss begins to change, becoming harder, deeper, and far more reckless.

He's already hard and aching for her, and when her lean thigh presses against the zipper of his trousers, he can't help the groan that tears from his throat. When he slips his hand between them to finally – _finally_ – cup the soft swell of her breast, she bites at his bottom lip, breathing something that sounds very much like _God, yes_ into his mouth. She presses her hips more firmly against his, sending a flash of raw hunger, dark and hot, shivering through his flesh and blood, his cock drawing up hard and tight against the rough fabric of his clothing.

She rocks against him, her breathy little sighs filling the air between them, and he finds the tight jut of her nipple through her shirt, rolling it between his fingers as he kisses her again and again. The exquisite pleasure-pain of the friction between them has taken hold of them both, it seems, and when he rolls her onto her back and settles himself between her legs, her answer is to kiss him harder, winding her arms around his neck to pull him closer. “ _Fuck_. I don’t want to stop,” she mutters in a thick whisper, “but we can’t do this tonight. We can’t risk it.”

She sounds faintly panicked, and he frowns, preparing to ease his body away from hers at the first hint that she doesn’t wish to seek comfort in his arms. “Risk what, love?”

She closes her eyes, and he feels her take a deep breath. “Okay, here goes. There are a couple of things in this world that keep you from getting pregnant.” She drapes one hand over her closed eyes, as though she can’t bring herself to look at him. “And I don’t have _any_ of them with me.” 

He shouldn’t smile at her confession, but she sounds so vexed with herself, he can’t help it. “You couldn’t have had the faintest inkling that the evening would end like this, love.”

Pulling her hand away from her eyes, she fixes him with a look. “You’re kidding, right?”

He kisses the top of her head as he rocks into her (hell’s bells, he’s as hard as a bloody rock, she’s got him panting like a cabin boy in short pants at his first sight of a naked woman) in a slow, deliberate thrust, and feels her answering shudder. The thought of her carrying his child is far from the deterrent she seems to think it is, but now is not the time to mention such a thing, not when the legacy of Henry’s advent into this world obviously still looms large in her thoughts. “Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

He kisses her again, deep and unhurried (although he wants nothing more than to devour her whole), then runs his hand along the length of her flank to hitch her leg a little higher on his hip. “Then let me look after you.”

Her answering smile is a tremulous thing of beauty, and one he knows will never leave his memory.

She unbuttons his shirt, then her own, but they don't undress any further. They simply move together, following the siren's song that's ensnared them both, her body soft and pliant beneath his, her thighs tight around his hips as he rocks into her, the seams and zippers of their clothing only seeming to heighten the sensation of being so close to the ultimate intimacy. Once they do away with her scrap of a corset, her breasts seem to be made for his mouth - tight nipples sweet against his tongue - and the feel of her fingernails raking down his chest and stomach is almost his undoing.

They push and tease and challenge each other (just as they've always done) and when they fall, they fall together. When she comes with a soft cry of completion, writhing beneath him, he barely has time to see that her breasts are indeed flushed the most delectable pink before the tension tightening his body like an archer's bow snaps. 

His climax has him shaking and shuddering against her, biting back curses as he chases every last scrap of pleasure, feverishly memorizing the feel of Emma as she comes undone beneath him until they sink into the mattress in a tangle of unsteady limbs and gasping words. “Emma. Oh, _Emma_.”

After a long moment, her arms still around his neck, she puts her mouth to his ear, her words tinged with laughter. “So much for a goodnight kiss.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He buries his head into the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her, kissing a smile against the curve of her throat. “At least we've saved something for when I'm fully recovered.”

Her laughter skims over him like butterfly wings, and his heart clenches in a way he feared he would never have the luxury of feeling ever again. “Hey, I'm not complaining,” she whispers, her fingers combing through his tousled hair, sending faint shivers of pleasure down his spine at the feel of her fingernails against his scalp. “You know, if we get some sleep now, we might even wake up in time to have breakfast downstairs tomorrow.”

He wasn't aware of the tension in his shoulders until it begins to fade at her invitation. Lifting his head, he meets her gaze steadily. “Together?”

She presses her forehead against his, and he knows she's heard his unspoken fears. It's one thing to find pleasure and comfort in each other behind closed doors, but to parade such a relationship in full view of the townsfolk is another thing entirely. “I almost lost you yesterday.” She brushes her nose against his, then her mouth touches his in a barely-there kiss. “Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

He feels a ridiculously wide smile stretch across his face at her choice of words. “I would despair if you did.”

Grinning, she waves her hand at the lamps above the bed, magic whispering through the air as they extinguish. That done, she rolls onto her side, stretching like a contented feline before taking his hand and pulling his arm over her waist. “If no other monsters or bad guys come out of the woodwork tomorrow, maybe you can finally take me on that second date you promised.”

His body pleasantly sated in a way he can scarcely recall, he pulls her back into the curve of his body, settling her arse against his groin. There might be better ways for a man to fall asleep, but he doubts it. “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

She's asleep in moments, her breathing slow and rhythmic. He cradles her body against his, the heat of her chasing away the last remnants of the chill that had set into his bones during Gold's manipulations. 

_Pompous jerk_ , he thinks suddenly, remembering Emma's assertion. Grinning, he settles himself more comfortably on his side of the bed, careful not to disturb the woman in his arms. Despite his insistence to Emma that he was feeling as good as new, exhaustion is clawing at him once more, telling him that’s long past time for sleep. The Crocodile might be gone, but the Dark One has always cast a long shadow. Tomorrow ( _today_ , he realises with a glance at the grey dawn nudging at the curtains at his window) will mark the start of the long journey towards ridding themselves of his legacy.

And the possibility of a second date with Emma Swan, of course.

He presses one last kiss to her warm temple and, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, falls asleep to the steady thrum of his own heartbeat.

 

~*~


End file.
